


The Perfect Canvas

by StarkRogers



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, M/M, Painting, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkRogers/pseuds/StarkRogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Copyright: This is an original work of fiction. Sherlock Holmes is public domain, making this piece of work legally mine. You may not reproduce or publish this work on any site or in any journal or any other form of media without my permission. </p><p> </p><p>Holmes is known for his musical talent, but what if he was also a painter? Holmes uses Watson as a human canvas, and Watson thoroughly enjoys the experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Canvas

I watch the paint slide away from the bristles, sliding down his smooth back in the candle light. Little imperfections and ripples are left behind by the brush, and the perking of his flesh as he shivers makes the paint glitter and sparkle in the flickering light. Watson sighs as I lift the brush away, leaving behind the first shimmering wet, sleek streak of paint. Red. He is pressed against the wall beside the window, arms crossed above his head. This better exposes his back to me, a perfect canvas of flesh. It lets moonlight trickle in and play in blues across his flesh, dancing with the warm hues of the candle. It is perfect.

A thin brush is selected next, balanced briefly in my calloused hands before picking up the color orange, thinned as I mix it with oils. I slide it along his trapezius, highlighting his scapula like wings with gentle flicks of the fox hair brush that make his toes curl, the muscles of his lower body tense and relax in quick succession. He sucks in a breath each time the brush leaves his skin, and I know from the pulse in his neck that I'm slowly driving him mad.

I pick up a different brush. Yellow bumps down his spine, starting at the nape of his neck. The thick flat brush bounces off each vertebrae, leaving gaps of unmarked skin all the way down until I twist the brush away, a bristle-thickness away from the triangle above his sculpted, curved bottom. He shudders, shivers, nearly weeps at the denial of sensations, the tension he wants brought down, further, lower.

I must contain myself, draw this out - oh! I chuckle at my own pun - as long as I can bear, longer than he can stand I am sure. I draw the brush along the perfect curve of his naked gluteus maximus, and I hear the straining in his voice as he struggles not to twitch, not to move, not to disturb my tantric slow brush strokes. Green. 

"Holmes." Labored, hoarse. He knows we are not done. I have two more colors left still, untouched daubs resting on the palette in my hand. I select the next color, a round brush, and kneel. I draw the paint from deep inside of his thigh outward, accenting the perfect crease where his cheeks meet his thighs. Blue. A hot cry breaks from his lips and he clings desperately to the draperies, his knees weakening. 

One last color, and I am almost sad to see I am nearly done. Every time it is a new piece of art. Watson's thighs are shuddering so much they blur my line as I streak purple up the inside of his thighs, first left and then right, spreading the paint all the way up until the brush presses feather soft against his perineum. He throws back his head, back and neck arching, coming to his toes with a keening cry so painful and lusty that I must at last answer it or go mad myself.

I press my lips against his opening to quell his shaking, my tongue hot against the rim, beckoning him to relax. I smirk as I hear a noise above me beneath the wailing moans: we will have to move the draperies tomorrow to cover up the torn wallpaper. I reach over to my easel and anoint my fingers with the oils I used to thin the paints; olive oil, nothing more. I slick them around the handle of one of my thicker brushes, and press it against him with a finger to ease it in. I hear the shark intake of breath as the handle slides in, growing thicker and then sliding in quickly as it thins once more. I spin the brush around; he gyrates above me as if I am turning the gears of a watch. I pull on the brush and it slides out nearly all the way, thickening then thinning again before I shove it back in. I repeat this several times, watching as my Watson tries to become one with the wall, a fresco. His perfect back buckles and ripples, muscles tensing and gleaming, the colors beautifully accenting each movement. I am breathless.

At last I relieve him of this pleasurable agony, removing the brush and pressing into him with two fingers without warning; he is plenty loose from the torture. He presses back against me, driving my fingers in deeper, begging for more.

"Please Holmes, I need you, don't torment me any more!" I curl my fingers, knuckle deep inside of him and it is only the wall supporting him and my strong arm around his waist that prevents him from falling completely to the floor. The deep moan that escapes him seems to go on forever. I slip my fingers out and lay him out on his back, paints and brushes knocked aside and forgotten as I devour his mouth. A mouth so perfect I could never paint it; even Donatello would fail. I drift down past nipples, licking them, and they are so perfect when hard I could never sculpt them, even marble would be too soft. 

My fingers dive for the oil one last time, drawing my hand around myself with a sharp hiss. His fingers tangle in my hair; sublime fingers, splendid arms, and I see perfect stars burst behind my eyes as I enter him and his voice breaks, fingers tightening painfully into fists. I pull out and he whimpers, I press in and he growls, arching his back to brings his hips against mine. I see every color now, more than I could ever create with paint, all of them swimming in my vision as I shudder, thrusting, rutting breathlessly into his flawless body.

It is hot, and quick, and faster than usual we are both spent, laying entwined with one another. Our legs peek out from behind the drapes, shimmering blue in the moonlight. The candle still flickers warmly on the nightstand, giving our skin warmth. Our panting breath make us alive, something truly better than any work of art.


End file.
